Seasons Greetings
Who Is Santa Claus?
The Cab Ride
December 2003
WHO IS SANTA CLAUS?
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a
kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the
day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she
jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her
that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew
Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always
went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her
"world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous,
because Grandma said so. It had to be true. Grandma was home, and
the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything.
She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted . . .
"Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around
for years, and it makes me mad plain mad!! Now, put on your coat,
and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second
world-famous cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's
General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just
about everything. As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed
me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this
money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it.
I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of
Kerby's.
I was only nine years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother,
but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store
seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their
Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there,
confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy,
and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my
family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people
who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby
Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat
right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-4 class. Bobby Decker
didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to
recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling
the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby
Decker didn't have a cough; he had no good coat. I fingered the
ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker
a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It
looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the
counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am,"
I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me, as
I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I
didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled
again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper
and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked
it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.
Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove
me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was
now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I
crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then
Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered,
"get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door,
threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew
back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.
Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door
to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years
haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside
my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that
those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said
they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on
his team.
I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
---------------------------------
THE CAB RIDE
When I drove a cab, I got called one night at 2:30 a.m. to a
building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor
window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk
once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But, I had seen too
many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means
of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always
went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my
assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and
knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a
long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood
before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a
veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side
was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had
lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on
the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos
and glassware. "Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.
I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept
thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just
try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother
treated". "Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could
you drive through downtown?" "It's not the shortest way," I
answered quickly. "Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry.
I'm on my way to a hospice".
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I
don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I
don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the
meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked. For the
next two hours, we drove through the city.
She showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator operator. We drove through the neighbourhood where she
and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me
pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a
ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building
or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly
said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the
address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small
convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They
were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must
have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small
suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a
wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said. "You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without
thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly "You
gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly
lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was
impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run,
or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't
think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're
conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in
what others may consider a small one.
People may not always remember exactly what you did, or what you
said, BUT, they will always remember how you made them feel.
http://www.ratical.org/co-globalize/seasonGreets.html (hypertext)
http://www.ratical.org/co-globalize/seasonGreets.txt (text only)
http://www.ratical.org/co-globalize/seasonGreets.pdf (print-ready)